


The Full Package

by Kalimyre



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, John is a Very Good Doctor, M/M, Omega Verse, Sex Toys, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-10
Updated: 2012-06-11
Packaged: 2017-11-07 10:20:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/429965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalimyre/pseuds/Kalimyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kinkmeme fill.  The clinic where John works caters specifically to Omegas experiencing their first heat. They provide top of the line service, and do anything necessary to ease their patients' discomfort.  Omega!Sherlock is his latest patient.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Doctor Watson?"

John glanced up from his desk. Shelley, the head nurse, was standing in the doorway of his office. "Yes?"

"New patient," she said. "Just in, and he's quite far along. Looks like he tried to hide the heat. He's going to need immediate treatment."

John sighed and pressed his lips together, exasperated. He could never understand why some omegas seemed so intent on denying their nature, or thought they could just tough the heat out with no help. "Right, get him settled in room three. Someone brought him in?"

"His older brother," Shelley replied. "Bit of an odd bird, very posh, but he came prepared with the insurance forms and everything."

"And the patient?"

"Older than usual for a first heat, he's nineteen, according to the brother. Looks healthy enough but he wouldn't let me get close enough to take any vitals."

John raised his eyebrows. "He's refusing care?"

"Not... exactly," Shelley hedged. "He did agree when I asked him for the formal consent. He's obviously uncomfortable and it seemed to get worse when I approached, so I backed off."

"Good, that's good," John said. "You did the right thing. I'll just wash up, I'll be there in a few minutes."

She nodded and left the patient's chart on his desk. John closed the door, then changed quickly into his scrubs (he never wore street clothes when treating a patient, they'd end up covered in potent omega hormones). He washed his hands thoroughly and checked that his nails were clean and closely trimmed. Then he picked up the chart and scanned it quickly as he walked down the hall.

"Nineteen, first heat, quite advanced, nearly ten hours in," he muttered to himself as he read. "Stubborn sort, then. No previous sexual history, hmm."

He reached the door to room three just as Shelley was coming out of it. "He's settled," she said. "Wouldn't change into the scrubs though. The brother is out in the waiting room, shall I send him home?"

"Yes, may as well," John said. "This will take some time.”

"Right," she said. "Good luck."

John quirked one corner of his mouth into a grin. "Have a feeling I'll need it with this one." Then he opened the door to the treatment room, and got his first look at his new patient.

Sherlock was perched on the edge of the bed, gripping the sheets in both hands. He was still fully dressed, slacks and a white button down shirt that had seen better days. The clothes were wrinkled and sweaty, and his curly black hair had gone frizzy with moisture. Two patches of hectic colour stood out on his pale cheeks and his throat bobbed as he swallowed. He was slim, and had the coltish look of a young man who had just barely finished growing into his long, gangly limbs. 

"Hello," John said quietly. He stopped a couple meters from the bed, and set the chart down on an end table. The room was sparse and clean, but felt more like a hotel than a hospital. They did try to make the patients comfortable in every way possible, and that included large, friendly rooms, fine linens on the beds, private bathrooms and wide windows letting in the morning sunlight.

Sherlock acknowledged him with a bare nod, but didn't meet his eyes. He rocked slightly on the bed, squirming a little, and John could see a muscle in his jaw work as he clenched his teeth.

"All right?" John asked, not really expecting an answer. "I'm Doctor Watson. You can call me John if you like, or Doctor, whatever you're comfortable with."

Sherlock nodded again. He flicked his eyes over to John, gave him a swift, sweeping glance. "Military," he said. "Not been out long. Alpha, unbonded, you were previously a trauma surgeon but you've changed specialties. Something happened while you were deployed? Something serious, you enjoyed your work... ah, the shoulder, you were injured then. Shot? Most likely, yes, and you're left handed, you couldn't be a surgeon anymore with compromised motor control in your left hand."

John blinked at him several times, and eventually remembered to close his mouth. "How... how could you possibly know all that?"

Sherlock smirked. "I didn't know, I saw. Obvious. I'm normally better than this actually, right now I'm a bit... distracted." He grimaced at the last word and shifted on the bed again.

"That's brilliant," John said. "Really, when we're done here you've got to explain how you did that."

"You're... not angry," Sherlock said cautiously. 

"Why would I be?"

"People usually are."

“Perhaps you haven’t met the right people,” John said. He moved closer, and Sherlock abruptly stood and edged around the bed, keeping his distance. On his feet, he was taller than John, but his legs were unsteady and he braced one hand against the wall to stay upright.

“All right,” John said, his voice sliding into the soothing tone he used when the patients were nervous. “Nothing is going to happen here without your consent, Sherlock. I just want to help you.”

“I know,” Sherlock said. “You don’t need to coddle me. I’m not a child.” 

“Clearly,” John replied. “If you prefer, I don’t actually need to touch you; we have several things you can use. But I do need to check your vitals and make sure you’re stable before we begin.”

Sherlock hesitated, then nodded jerkily. “What do I have to do?”

“Just sit on the bed, please. You can leave your shirt on if it makes you more comfortable, but undo the buttons.”

Sherlock complied, sinking back down on the bed, his trembling fingers going to his shirt buttons. He watched John warily, then shrugged the shirt off his shoulders and lifted his chin as if daring John to comment. 

“Good,” John said. “I’m going to examine you now. Just sit still, and remember that you can tell me to stop at any time.”

“I know,” Sherlock said. “It’s fine, I’m fine.”

John took his temperature first, holding the digital thermometer against Sherlock’s ear. This close, the hormones rolling off Sherlock in waves were nearly overwhelming, and John was grateful for the regular suppressants he took. They were the only reason he could be in the room and still maintain his professional calm. The thermometer beeped, and he pulled it back, nodding. “Thirty seven point five,” he said. “A bit high, but that’s normal in your condition.”

“Also elevated heart rate, respiration, and blood pressure,” Sherlock said. “I’m familiar with the symptoms.”

John didn’t reply, just nodded and went about methodically confirming everything Sherlock had just listed. He could hear Sherlock’s breathing, a shaky rasp with each inhale, and his pulse sped perceptibly under his fingertips. Sherlock trembled so hard he couldn’t keep the pulse long enough for a good count, and John put a soothing hand on his shoulder. “Be still now,” he said, adding a touch of command to his voice. “You’re all right, just take a breath and be still.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and visibly relaxed, leaning into the touch. John smiled. Every omega was different; some had barely any submissive impulse. Lucky for him, Sherlock seemed to be on the other end of the spectrum. 

“Right,” John said. “You’re healthy, but you’ve put yourself under quite a bit of strain waiting this long. Let’s get you sorted.”

Sherlock stiffened and his hands tugged fretfully at the sheet beneath him. “What happens next?”

“Take off your trousers and pants,” John directed. “While you’re doing that, decide if you want me to touch you, or if you’d rather use one of our little toys. It’s fine either way, choose what you feel most comfortable with.”

John turned his back while Sherlock got undressed; most patients seemed to appreciate the brief concession to privacy. When he looked again, Sherlock lay stiffly on the bed, hands at his side and knees together. He was fully erect, quite normal for his advanced stage of heat, and John couldn’t help a slight sympathetic wince. That had to be aching by now, had probably been for some time.

“Good,” John said. “You decided?”

Sherlock nodded. “The, um, toy,” he said, his face going even pinker. “Are you… do I use it or do you… I haven’t done this before,” he admitted in a quiet mumble. 

“That’s fine,” John said briskly. “I’ll use it, just to show you how, and then you decide if you want to take over or if you want me to keep going, okay?”

“Okay,” Sherlock said. He shifted, rocking from side to side, and bit his lip. His hands remained resolutely tangled in the sheet.

“You can touch yourself if you need to,” John said. “Don’t hold back on my account.”

“I’m not… I tried that earlier,” Sherlock said. “It didn’t help. It’s not what I need.”

“I know,” John said. “It’s okay. I know exactly what you need.” He opened the toy drawer, glancing over the contents. Everything was in excellent condition, and sterilized, of course. John considered for a moment, then decided to start with a simple silicone plug, long and slender, curved to fit the internal vaginal opening in a male omega. 

Sherlock’s eyes widened when he saw it, and his breath caught in his throat. “Oh,” he said, his voice sounding very small.

“Here we are,” John said. He sat on the bed by Sherlock’s hip, and rubbed a hand gently over his belly. “Just relax, I promise, you’re going to feel a lot better soon.”

Sherlock’s abdomen was taut and quivering under his hand, and Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed. John nudged the insides of his knees, and Sherlock parted his legs obediently. John stroked up his thighs, milky pale and smooth like the rest of him, easing them further apart. “You’ll feel my hand first,” he murmured. “I’m just checking to make sure you’re lubricated enough.”

Sherlock nodded, eyes still shut tight. He gasped when John slid his fingertips over his perineum, and canted his hips upward in reflexive invitation. He was slick, his inner thighs slippery with it, and he pressed himself against John’s hand and made an eager whine. “Easy,” John said. “Fingers now, going to stretch you a bit.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “Yes, okay, fine. _Please_.”

Two fingers went in easily, the muscle relaxed and well lubricated, and Sherlock writhed and ground down against him. “Good,” John said. “Feel all right? Pressure is normal but there shouldn’t be any pain, make sure you tell me if something hurts.”

“It’s fine, it’s good, doesn’t hurt,” Sherlock babbled. “You can… more. More is good.”

John smiled and curled his fingers, finding Sherlock’s prostate easily. Sherlock keened and his hips bucked upward, his cock slapping against his stomach. “Right, I think you’re ready,” John said. “Going to put the toy in now. Relax and bear down.” 

He took his fingers out and nudged the tip of the toy against Sherlock, sliding it in steadily. Sherlock’s body swallowed it up, the skin pink and flushed around the slim white device. John angled it carefully, twisted a little until he felt the resistance lessen and then he slipped it in the rest of the way. Sherlock panted for breath, his toes curled and he groaned, long and low.

“There,” John said. “How’s that?”

“Move it, push, I need you to… oh please,” Sherlock said. “I can’t, I have to,” and he wrapped a hand around his cock and squeezed. His hips lifted off the bed and John moved with them, keeping his grip on the end of the toy. He slid it in and out, slowly at first, and then quicker when Sherlock gave a frustrated moan. John put one hand firmly on Sherlock’s hip, holding him in place, and then he touched the switch on the base of the toy that started it vibrating.

Sherlock _squealed_ and twisted and pushed himself frantically toward John. “Oh oh oh god oh like that push harder right there oh,” he mumbled brokenly. “More more more yes there oh please…”

John changed the angle slightly, then twisted so the curved tip would rub inside. Sherlock arched his back and bit the side of his hand and came in long, shuddery pulses, his eyes rolling back in his head. John took him through it, keeping the toy on and pressed deep until Sherlock finally went slack and boneless on the bed. Then he switched it off and gently removed it; Sherlock barely twitched.

John put the toy in a box in the bathroom to be cleaned and sterilized by the staff later, and washed his hands. He wet a washcloth with warm water, and went back to Sherlock, cleaning the come off his chest and belly. Sherlock stirred and blinked at him sleepily. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

John raised an eyebrow. “Nothing to be sorry for.”

“Not usually that quick,” Sherlock muttered. 

“Sherlock, you’ve been in heat for _hours_ ,” John said. “I’m amazed you held out so long. We’ll go slower on the next round.”

Sherlock swallowed. “Next round?”

“Yes. You do know heat lasts several days, right?”

“Of course I know that,” Sherlock retorted. “I just thought… well, I know what to do now. I didn’t expect you to stay with me for all of it.”

“I’m here to make this comfortable for you,” John said. “If you want me to go, then I will. But if you want me to stay, that’s fine as well.”

Sherlock bit his lip and looked away. He shivered, the sweat cooling on his skin, and John covered him with a blanket. He smoothed Sherlock’s hair back from his forehead, and let his palm rest against the young man’s cheek. “Do you want me to stay?”

Sherlock nodded, then attempted a smile. “Mycroft is paying for all of it, may as well get the full package.”

“Good thinking,” John said, smiling back at him. He lay on his side next to Sherlock, and rested an arm over his chest. “Many omegas feel a need for physical contact and affection during their heat, especially after the immediate mating urge has been satisfied. Is it all right with you if I hold you a while?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said softly. He yawned, then wriggled a little closer. 

John stroked his back, rubbing in long, steady lines. “Try to get some rest while you can. That toy didn’t have a knot so it won’t keep you satisfied for long.”

“Mmm.” Sherlock nosed into the hollow of John’s throat and sighed. “Will the next one have a knot?”

“If you want, yes.”

He could feel Sherlock take a deep breath, likely getting a heady dose of John’s alpha pheromones in the process. Subdued, because of the suppressants he took for the job, but certainly noticeable to an omega in heat. “Could you… next time, maybe could you not use a toy? Could it just be you?”

“Are you sure?” John asked, but he couldn’t disguise the eager anticipation in his voice.

Sherlock chuckled dryly. “I did say I wanted the full package, after all.”

That startled a laugh out of John, and Sherlock lifted his head long enough to grin at him. Then he yawned again, curled until he was sprawled lazily against John’s chest, and fell into an exhausted sleep. John pressed a kiss to the top of his head. Some days he really did love his job.

*


	2. In Which Sherlock Does Indeed Get the Full Package

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented on the first part! It was meant to be a one-shot but there were so many encouraging requests for more that I gave it a another go.

Sherlock didn’t sleep long. John hadn’t expected that he would; he had probably been up all the previous night trying to fight off the initial stages of heat, but even exhaustion was no match for the mating imperative, not to mention the average recovery time of a nineteen year old. In less than an hour, Sherlock began to shift in his arms, twisting and muttering under his breath. He squirmed closer and buried his face against John’s shoulder, then turned to nuzzle his neck and inhale deeply. He moaned and nudged his hips forward, and John could feel him against his leg, already hard again.

John smoothed a hand along his side, then gently tugged the blanket down. Sherlock was warm again, the heat radiating off him and making a fine sweat spring up on his face and chest. He smelled delicious, edible, and John had to close his eyes and force several steadying breaths. Working with omegas in heat always meant fighting temptation, but John was strong willed and, above all, a professional. He did not cross that line. But something about this particular patient was pushing him closer than he’d ever gotten.

“Oh,” Sherlock mumbled, breathing in open mouthed pants now, his fingers tangling in the sheet. His eyes were still closed, not quite awake, but it couldn’t last much longer. John had seen this pattern in many patients; they could hold off for hours when the heat first began, but once that first mating happened (especially if alpha pheromones were present nearby when it did) the cycles came fast and relentless afterward. 

John rolled him onto his belly and kicked the blanket the rest of the way off the bed. He put a firm hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck, not enough to pin him down, but enough for him to feel the pressure and be steadied. Sherlock’s breathing eased and some of the tension went out of his back. His inner thighs were already glistening with moisture, and a flush spread over his skin. Sherlock pulled in a rapid breath and stiffened, and John saw his eyes open wide.

“Easy now,” John said, keeping his hand in place on Sherlock’s neck. “It’s okay, you’re fine.”

Sherlock blinked and his eyes darted around the room, then focused on John. John had the impression of something very rapid happening in his head; he could almost see the gears spinning behind those sharp eyes. Sherlock licked his lips, and tugged impatiently at John’s scrubs. “You said, this time,” he started. “You said you would, I need you to, it’s… it’s more now, I can’t...”

“I know,” John told him. “It’s normal. Everything about your heat has been perfectly healthy so far.”

“Stop reassuring me and just do it,” Sherlock snapped. Then, it a somewhat contrite tone that John didn’t believe for a second, he added, “ _Please._ ”

“All right,” John said. He stripped quickly out of his scrubs, aware of Sherlock’s greedy gaze on him. Sherlock was already squirming and shifting on the bed, one hand rubbing fretfully at his thigh, smearing the moisture around. When John slid his pants to the floor, Sherlock’s focus shifted immediately to his cock, already hard against his belly. “You want this,” Sherlock said. “You want it too.”

“You’re in full heat,” John replied as he carefully rolled on a condom. “Any alpha in the world would want you right now.”

Sherlock shook his head, dismissive. “Not just that. This is different for you.”

“Stop doing that,” John growled and got on the bed, laying his body over Sherlock’s, pressing him into the mattress. He nuzzled the back of Sherlock’s neck, licking his skin, mouthing at him with little scrapes of his teeth. Sherlock moaned and arched up, pushing his arse against John, his legs already spreading. 

“Yes, come on, do it,” Sherlock babbled. “Please, I’m ready, I need you to do it. Can you go faster? I want to feel it, come on, I want…”

John slid halfway in on the first stroke, and Sherlock fell quiet, his mouth hanging open, all the breath gone out of him. John gritted his teeth and made himself stop there, waiting for the exquisite tightness to ease a little. “All right?” he asked, his voice strained. “Bigger than that toy, I know. Tell me if there’s any pain.”

“Oh, oh,” Sherlock murmured. His voice was soft, wondering. “More. I need you to… to push, there’s, it’s like this itch, I can’t… oh more, please more.”

John gave him more, pressing forward slowly as Sherlock opened around him. He was hot on the inside too, slick and velvety and John wanted to hold him down and bite him and thrust in hard, wanted to pound him into the mattress. He clenched his hands into fists and continued the steady glide in. There was more resistance near the end, at the base of his cock where the skin would expand into a knot. He was already a little thicker there and Sherlock grunted at the extra stretch. John made himself go still. “Okay?” he asked.

“Mmm,” Sherlock said. “I can feel it. Move, need you to move.”

John pulled a few inches out, then eased forward again. The slow pace was maddening, excruciating, incredible. He squeezed his eyes shut and chewed on his bottom lip and kept his hands gentle on Sherlock’s hips. Sherlock wriggled beneath him, pushing back against the thrust, urging him deeper and this time John bottomed out, hips flush against Sherlock’s arse. He stayed there, rocking slightly, reveling in it. “Oh that’s good,” he said. “Right there, fuck you’re tight.”

“You always… talk to your patients like that?” Sherlock asked, gasping for breath between words. 

“No,” John admitted. “Going to go faster now.”

“Yes, _finally_ ,” Sherlock groaned. 

John pulled back, then pushed in fast, his hips slapping against Sherlock this time, and Sherlock shouted wordlessly and bucked. “Like that?” John asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. He kept going, steady, hard pushes, and changed his angle until Sherlock started to moan with each stroke. He felt Sherlock tightening and fluttering around him, and he leaned forward, rubbing his mouth along Sherlock’s skin, inhaling the heady scent. Sherlock was shaking beneath him, whining low in his throat as he came, hips jerking and grinding back against John. His arms buckled and he collapsed against the mattress, and John landed on top of him, driving in even harder.

“ _Yes_ ,” Sherlock said, his voice a low rumble, slurred and purring. “Like that, hard, like that.”

“You, ah,” John panted, “you need a break?”

“No,” Sherlock said immediately. “Don’t stop.” He pressed back, then rutted forward into the mattress. “Keep going, hard, again, all the way in.” 

John managed three somewhat controlled strokes before he lost the final vestiges of control and thrust hard, over and over, pushing Sherlock up the mattress until he had one hand braced against the headboard and the other curled around his cock. “Sherlock,” he warned, “I’m almost, I’m going to knot, you need to decide if you want…”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock said, cutting him off. “In me, I want it, do it.” He rolled his head on the pillow and groaned. 

John felt that telltale rush of heat and pressure right at the base of his cock and he thrust in hard, the plush curve of Sherlock’s arse fitting snugly against him. He dug his fingertips into Sherlock’s hips and came and came, distantly aware that Sherlock was coming too, shuddering beneath him. He curled forward as the last shivery pulses rolled through him, and kissed the back of Sherlock’s neck, pulling the skin between his teeth. Sherlock leaned into the pressure, and John bit a little harder. His mind was a haze of pleasure and want, and Sherlock just tasted so good, so perfect and he belonged to John, John and no one else and, and…

“Doctor,” Sherlock said quietly. 

John jerked back and stared at the faint ring of teeth marks he’d left on Sherlock’s neck. “Oh god,” he muttered. “Oh god, I’m sorry, I didn’t…”

“You didn’t break the skin,” Sherlock said. 

“No, no I didn’t, fuck I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have even come close to that, I… that is so far out of line.” John rolled them carefully to the side, catching his breath as he shifted inside Sherlock. They were still knotted together tightly, Sherlock curled into the curve of his body.

“It’s all right,” Sherlock told him.

“No, it really isn’t,” John said. “This is why I don’t…”

“Why you don’t do this for your other patients,” Sherlock finished for him. “I suspected as much earlier.” He shifted, then made a soft sound, and tightened around John. 

“You all right?” John asked. “First time knotting can be a lot of pressure on the body.”

“It’s good,” Sherlock said. “Pressure, yes, but exactly where I want it.” He rocked, rubbing John in a slow, snug grind, and John groaned. “And you’re avoiding the question.”

“How can you even…” John blew a frustrated breath through his teeth. “I don’t think this is the best time for this conversation.”

“It’s the perfect time,” Sherlock retorted. “We’ll be knotted for another twenty minutes or so, we’re comfortable, and you’re so close I can feel your pulse. I’ll be able to tell if you’re dissembling, and besides, oxytocin and endorphins lower inhibitions and encourage honesty.”

Despite himself, John let out a startled laugh. “Jesus, who _are_ you?”

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said, sounding a bit put out. “You know who I am. Problem?”

“No, just… you’re impossible, you know that? Brilliant, and amazing, and fucking impossible.”

“Not impossible,” Sherlock replied. “Just very, very improbable.”

John laughed again, and he was pleased when Sherlock joined him, a low, rumbling chuckle. “Fine,” John said, still grinning against the skin of Sherlock’s shoulder. “You’re right, I don’t normally do this. When I take care of patients, I use the toys. I’m very good at it, they usually don’t ask for more, and if they do, I refer them to one of the other doctors. We have three other alphas on staff who are all quite capable.”

“But you made an exception for me.”

“Yes,” John said quietly. “And clearly it wasn’t the right choice.”

Sherlock didn’t respond, but John could hear him swallow and take a careful breath. John slipped his arms around Sherlock’s chest and squeezed him, then pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “Don’t take it like that,” he said. “It’s not your fault. I have to maintain a certain professional distance to do this and I knew it would be difficult, especially with you, and I went ahead and did it anyway. I nearly bit you, Sherlock, during a heat, you know what that would do.”

Sherlock nodded. “You feel it too, then.”

John considered dodging the question, pretending he didn’t understand, but it was already obvious that Sherlock would see right through him. “Yeah. But this is… I’m your doctor, this is a professional service, not… it’s completely inappropriate and borderline assault.”

“I asked for all of it,” Sherlock argued. “When this started you told me nothing would happen without my consent and it was true.”

“You didn’t consent to being bonded,” John shot back. “If I’d bitten you…”

“You stopped in time.”

“No, _you_ stopped me in time,” John said. “You’re in your first heat, it’s normal for you to be emotionally compromised, to be impulsive. I’m supposed to be the one in control here.”

“What if I did consent?” Sherlock asked.

“Sherlock…”

“It’s a serious question.” Sherlock twisted, trying to look at him, then gasped when the movement tugged on John inside of him. He closed his eyes and shifted his hips in tiny motions, circling. “Oh,” he murmured. “Oh, that’s good.”

John bit back a moan and pressed deeper. Sherlock was snug around him, gripping everywhere, slick and hot. “I told you,” he groaned. “I said this was a bad time for a serious conversation. You can’t have an argument if you have to interrupt it in the middle for more sex.”

“This strikes me as an excellent way to have an argument,” Sherlock said. “Oh god, just like that. I, um… I meant it. About consenting. And, oh, I already know what your objections will be. I’m too young—no I’m not. I’m a legal adult. Passed the age of consent three years ago. And you’re, what, thirty?”

“Thirty-one,” John replied. He rolled them again, lying on top and resting his full weight on Sherlock. 

“Yes, oh,” Sherlock writhed underneath him. “There, that’s perfect, just, ah, move a little, just push…” He whimpered and began contracting around John again, rocking them together. The pheromones rising off him in waves spiked when he came and John breathed deep, then nuzzled the sleek line of his back as another orgasm rushed over him. He kept his mouth carefully closed this time, teeth pressed firmly together. 

“So,” Sherlock said after a minute, when his breathing slowed. “Not that much of an age difference. It’s common for omegas to bond with older alphas. An older alpha is stronger, more experienced, more established in their career, better able to provide for a family.”

“Sherlock, you are going way too fast,” John protested, but Sherlock didn’t stop. 

“Second objection, I’m not fully rational. I’m overwhelmed with hormones and making a connection to the person closest to me during the heat.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Ridiculous. I’m always fully rational. I’m not the only one feeling a connection. You don’t normally do this. Something made you treat me differently, respond to me differently. If anyone is emotionally compromised here, it’s you, not me. Therefore I’m the voice of reason and you should listen to me.”

John closed his eyes and rested his forehead against Sherlock’s shoulder. He felt a faintly hysterical giggle rising in his chest, and forced it back down. “The voice of reason,” he muttered. “Oh yes, clearly, that’s what you are.”

Sherlock ignored him. “Third, professional ethics. You can’t bond with a patient. You can’t take advantage of me, of my situation, of the trust placed in you as a doctor to provide care without selfish intent. Easily solved. This clinic caters specifically to omegas in their first heat. Once the heat has passed, I won’t be your patient anymore.”

“You won’t want this anymore then,” John countered quietly. “No, hear me out,” he added when Sherlock opened his mouth. “I do actually know what I’m talking about. You aren’t the first omega to go through this, Sherlock. You were nervous, I was kind, I gave you what you needed and you feel a combination of gratitude and hormones. You’re mistaking it for something else.”

Sherlock set his jaw stubbornly. “No, I’m not.”

John sighed and nosed along the line of Sherlock’s hair, the curls soft against his face. Sherlock shifted, rolling his shoulders, then turned on his side and pulled John’s arms back around him. He curved his back into John’s belly and fitted their legs together, intent on touching as much of John’s skin as possible. 

“You take suppressants for work, right?” Sherlock asked. “To allow you to maintain control.”

“Right. Not that they’re doing me much good at the moment.”

“Just imagine what this would be like without them,” Sherlock said, and John shivered. He’d treated quite a few omegas, but never without the suppressants, and never with anything more than his hands and the clinic’s supply of toys. Sherlock’s scent, the taste of his skin, was heady and overwhelming enough already.

“I think you’re a very dangerous young man,” John said.

Sherlock grinned over his shoulder. “Yes. And here you are.”

John shuddered and mouthed the line of Sherlock’s neck, licking the faint grit of salt. He scraped lightly with his teeth, carefully, and Sherlock trembled under him. John pulled back with a frustrated sound and took three measured breaths, counting each one. “All right,” he said. “Here’s what happens. I can’t continue treating you. It’s too risky, for both of us. You can take care of yourself with the supplies in the room—there are plenty of clean toys, and we’ll keep you provided with food and water. We have beta nurses who can check up on you regularly to make sure you’re all right. Or, if you like, I can refer you to one of the other doctors.”

“No,” Sherlock said. “No other doctors. Nobody else touches me. I’ll take care of myself.”

John felt something ease in his chest, and realized the hot pressure had been bristling anger at the thought of anyone else laying a hand on Sherlock. “Right,” he said. “Good. Yes. Then, when your heat is well over, take some time. Away from here. Don’t contact me, keep your distance, clear your head. Just think, really think about it, and if you still want…”

“I will,” Sherlock said. “I’ll still want.”

“ _If_ you do,” John continued, “then… we’ll see.”

“Good,” Sherlock said, sounding far too pleased with himself. “Mycroft is going to be livid. He had some smug banker picked out for me.”

“Mycroft is your brother, right? The one who brought you in?”

Sherlock nodded. “He chose the place, too. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t have met you. The irony will kill him.”

John directed a stern look at Sherlock. “Tell me this isn’t all a plot to get back at your brother.”

“No, that’s just a delightful perk,” Sherlock said. He wriggled a little, and raised a hopeful eyebrow. “Speaking of which…”

“Sorry, no,” John said. He could already feel the pressure easing as his knot went down, and he reached down to grasp the base of the condom. “Suppressants. I could go for longer without them.”

“Something to look forward to, then,” Sherlock said.

John curled close, holding on for a few more minutes. “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe.”

*


	3. Waiting

John did not involve himself further in Sherlock’s care. He referred the case to a colleague and avoided room three. He picked up enough from the nurses to know that Sherlock did not request any further assistance, and handled the rest of his heat on his own. He was discharged on the fourth day with a clean bill of health and instructions on how to manage heats going forward. The room was thoroughly cleaned and sterilized, as their rooms always were between patients. The next time John walked in there, he could detect no trace of Sherlock.

Probably for the best, really. John gave it a week before he thought Sherlock might reasonably try to contact him, and then a second week, telling himself that he had, after all, asked Sherlock to take his time and think. By the third week, he quietly accepted that it had been rather foolish to hope for anything else.

One day, nearly a full month after Sherlock’s treatment, John was in a café near the office, having dinner and reading the paper. He glanced up and raised his eyebrows when a man slid into the seat opposite him. “Hello?” he tried cautiously when the man only regarded him steadily and didn’t speak.

“Doctor Watson,” the man said. It wasn’t a question. 

“Yes?” John frowned slightly. “Can I help you?”

The man quirked an eyebrow at him and didn’t reply. He was impeccably dressed in a fine three piece suit, clean shaven and austere, with ginger hair lying neatly on his forehead and an umbrella leaning against his leg. 

John narrowed his eyes. Anyone who thought he would be intimidated by a cool, silent stare clearly didn’t know him very well. Eventually the man cleared his throat and a small line appeared between his eyebrows. “What is the nature of your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?” he asked.

“I don’t have one,” John replied evenly. 

“You provided treatment for him on January 20,” the man replied.

“I don’t discuss my patients.” John leaned back and cocked his head to the side. “You’re the brother, aren’t you? Mycroft, was it?”

“Treatment, of course, is just one word for what occurred. There are others that would be more accurate.” 

John nodded and pressed his lips together. “So what is this, then? If you’re going to accuse me of something, then come on and say it.”

“Is there something I should accuse you of?” Mycroft’s eyes had gone hard, but his voice was still polite and casual, almost bored sounding.

John fixed him with a long, assessing look, and then dismissed him and went back to reading his paper. The words were muddled nonsense in front of his eyes, and he could feel his heart pounding, but his face gave nothing away. Mycroft stayed, watching him.

After a few minutes, Mycroft tapped his fingers irritably on the table. “You were the doctor assigned to him when he arrived. You evaluated him, provided… treatment… and then referred him to another doctor. Sherlock did not avail himself of this other doctor. Why did you not stay with him for the duration of his care?”

“I told you,” John said. “I don’t discuss my patients.”

“He is no longer your patient.”

“He’s not my anything,” John snapped back. “I met him once, we spent less than two hours together, I haven’t heard from him since.”

Mycroft lifted one patrician brow. “I see. And yet you made quite an impression on him.”

John leaned forward, an immediate flicker of hope lighting in his chest. “I did? Why… what makes you say that?”

Mycroft smiled tightly. “If he is nothing to you, why do you care?”

“I didn’t say… look, he’s…” John sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “He’s not nothing to me. He was my patient and I care about his well-being. Is he all right?”

Mycroft sighed and tugged at his shirt cuff, although it was already straight. “He has expressed an interest in contacting you. I have discouraged him from this notion, because I believed it would be inappropriate. I believed he had formed an ill advised and one sided connection to you and that any attempt on his part to pursue this connection would be rejected.”

“I see,” John said slowly. 

“Do you? Sherlock does not form connections to people, Doctor Watson. Not ever.”

“Wait a minute,” John said, holding up a hand. “He told you he wanted to contact me. You told him not to. And he _listened_ to you?”

A faint crinkle appeared at the corners of Mycroft’s eyes. On anyone else, it might have been a smile. “You’ve met him. How often do you think he listens to anyone? No, I had to be somewhat persuasive. But I do know how to get what I want.”

“So why are you here now?”

“I worry about him,” Mycroft replied. “Sherlock is mercurial. He seizes upon a new interest with great intensity, but soon becomes bored and moves on. I presumed it would be the same with his interest in you. That has not proven to be the case, so I am… reconsidering my prior stance.”

“You think you might have been wrong,” John interpreted. “And you’re trying to fix it.”

That faint smile flicked over Mycroft’s face again. “I see why he likes you. And I believe it is not as one sided as I previously thought.”

“No, it isn’t,” John admitted. 

Mycroft nodded, then wrinkled his nose in a mild expression of distaste. “There is a conversation which I believe is traditional at this point. I make some threatening comment about the safety of my brother and your treatment of him, and you agree to treat him well. Shall we just take it as read that you understand your situation in that regard?”

“As in, ‘if you hurt my little brother they’ll never find your body?’ That conversation?”

“Ah, good,” Mycroft said. “We understand each other perfectly. Good day, Doctor Watson.” He stood and glided out the door, leaving John blinking dazedly in his wake.

*

John took his time walking home, not sure what he should expect. Would Sherlock try to call him? Would he be waiting at his flat? Or was he only interested in contacting John because his brother didn’t want him to? If he had Mycroft’s permission, maybe the appeal of rebellion would fade and he’d lose interest. John could get his number and address from his records at the clinic, but that felt like an invasion of his privacy, and besides, he’d told Sherlock to contact him when and if he wanted to. It had to be Sherlock’s move next.

He climbed the stairs to his flat and took a deep breath before opening the door, but everything was just as he’d left it. Neat, cold, and impersonal. He hadn’t been back long enough to really settle into civilian life, and his flat still had a touch of the barracks about it. Clean and gray and empty. John wandered into the kitchen, automatically filled and switched on the kettle, then looked out the window to the dark street below. A few people passed by. Nobody looked up at him.

Eventually, he poured steaming water into a cup, added a teabag, and watched the steam rise for a few minutes. The fridge ticked and hummed quietly to itself, and there was a faint sound of traffic, but otherwise the flat was silent. John rubbed a hand over his face. Foolish. Hadn’t he decided it was foolish to hope? He had put this away, it was over. There were so many reasons it was a bad idea.

And yet, there was Mycroft. He did not strike John as a man who changed his mind easily. If Sherlock had managed to talk him around, he must have been persistent. Then again, Sherlock might have pushed just for the sake of pushing, of winning an argument. John had met both men exactly once, and briefly; he couldn’t really make any accurate judgments about either of them. 

Sherlock had surely not been lying in wait just around the corner, waiting for the word from Mycroft before dashing up to John’s flat. That was absurd. For one thing, John didn’t think that Sherlock would really wait on his brother’s permission if he wanted something. Besides, Sherlock had a life of his own. He was probably in university, he might not even be in London anymore. There was certainly no point in waiting up for him.

John waited up anyway. Sherlock did not come.

*

John left the clinic. The work was fun, certainly, but not challenging in the way that trauma surgery had been. Not exciting and life or death desperate. Most of the patients were from wealthy families, who could afford such a high end service, and didn’t truly need the help. Plenty of high quality toys and instructions could be found on the internet, after all. The clinic was a luxury item if anything, and John missed the sense of being useful, being needed.

It didn’t help that every time he went to see a new patient, there was a brief moment of hope, and then disappointment when it wasn’t Sherlock.

He had his pension and his savings, and picked up locum work at the A&E, enough to get him by. He had his small, tidy flat and his walks around the city and his long evenings lingering over dinner in a café, just enjoying the feeling of people around him. He was never especially eager to go home.

It had been two months since his conversation with Mycroft (not that he was keeping track) when John came home to find Sherlock lying on his couch, staring up at the ceiling. He tilted his head to look at John, then pressed his palms together and tapped his fingertips against his chin, returning his gaze to the ceiling. “Are you always out so late?” he asked. “I’ve been waiting _hours_.”

“Sherlock.” John’s voice came out thin and distant. “You… you’re in my flat.”

“Yes. Spot on. Excellent deduction, John.”

“The door was locked.”

“Again, yes.” Sherlock sighed. “Can we move beyond the part of the evening where you state the obvious?” 

“You… it’s been three months, you bloody madman! You disappeared, you didn’t try to contact me, I heard nothing at all except for a strange and very disturbing conversation with your brother, and then you break into my flat? Excuse me for needing a moment!”

Sherlock rolled to his feet, then stalked toward John. “Yes, it’s been three months,” he said. “Think about what that means.”

And John finally smelled him, the rich and heady scent coming off him in waves. “Oh god,” he muttered. “You’ve gone into heat again.”

Sherlock gave him a predatory grin. “Exactly.” He crowded John against the door, the cloud of pheromones intoxicating from this close. John had been off the suppressants for weeks and had no defenses against this at all. His knees went weak and he was immediately hard. He groaned and thumped his head back against the door frame, then wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist and pulled him close. He buried his face in the curve of Sherlock’s neck and licked him, salt-sweet and even better than he’d remembered.

“You,” he said, “oh god, I can’t believe you, that’s cheating, that is just… you know I can’t… you’re wearing too many fucking clothes.” 

“Yes,” Sherlock ground out. “Yes, I am, I told you I’ve been waiting here, waiting for _hours_ , John, I need…”

John growled low in his throat and spun them, pinning Sherlock against the wall. He pulled Sherlock’s shirt off, ignoring the distant click of buttons falling. Sherlock was sleek and pale, endless skin under John’s hands and he wanted to taste all of it, to press his mouth to every inch of Sherlock. He lapped at the line of his collarbone, the curve of his shoulder, the tight pink bud of a nipple. Sherlock shuddered and whined. “John,” he said, breathless. “John, hurry, you have to hurry.”

“Waited three months for you,” John snapped back, and then kissed him, Sherlock’s mouth plush and startled beneath his. “You can wait for me.”

“Oh I can’t, I really can’t,” Sherlock said. “I can smell you this time, it’s not like before, you have to, I’m, I’m going to burn up.” He tugged at John’s belt, hands shaking as he tried to undo the buckle.

“Managed just fine on my couch all evening,” John retorted, but he helped with the belt, then attacked Sherlock’s trousers. “Even had time to mock me for stating the obvious.”

“That was before I got close to you,” Sherlock said. “Yes, yes, this, I want…” He curled his hand around John’s cock through his clothes. He scrabbled at the buttons and there was a sound of tearing fabric and John’s trousers and pants slid down his hips. Sherlock groaned and tugged at him, writhing against the wall.

“Shh, steady, I will,” John said. He got Sherlock’s trousers down and made a pleased sound to find him naked beneath them. He slid his fingers around the curve of Sherlock’s arse and then up, through the slick moisture already coating him, and in, pressing two as far as he could reach.

“Oh!” Sherlock arched and pushed back against his hand. “Yes, yes more. _More._ ”

“Here, come here,” John said and they staggered, both of them with trousers around their ankles, and there was nearly a collapse of limbs but he caught the edge of the door frame and held them up and managed to shove his shoes off. They turned again and Sherlock ended up facing the wall, braced against it. John had three fingers in him now, pressing and curling, and his nose up against the back of Sherlock’s neck, breathing him in.

“Please, please,” Sherlock said. “Oh it’s good but it’s not enough, please.”

“Come on, walk, my room,” John said. He pulled on Sherlock and half carried him through the door and they tumbled onto the bed, Sherlock squirming beneath him, reaching for John’s cock insistently. 

“Now,” Sherlock panted, wrapping his legs around John’s waist. “Now, now, now.”

“Yes,” John promised him, “yes, now, let me get a condom.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Don’t need that.”

“Yes we do,” John said firmly. He reached over to the bedside table, wriggling to get closer, and Sherlock grabbed his arm and pulled him down. He kissed John, mouthed the line of his jaw, moaned against his neck. His hand curled around John’s cock and stroked, slippery with sweat, and John groaned and forgot what he was doing. He sucked a mark high on Sherlock’s throat, lapping at the skin, watching it bob as Sherlock swallowed.

Sherlock wriggled and tilted his hips up, rubbing his arse against the head of John’s cock. He was slick everywhere, hot and smooth and John twitched, his hips jerking forward automatically. “Yes,” Sherlock moaned. “I want it, it’s mine, now John.”

John closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. “Condom first,” he insisted. “Or this isn’t happening.”

“Fine, yes, anything,” Sherlock said. “Hurry.”

John hurried. Sherlock squirmed impatiently, pushing his own fingers into himself. John’s hands were steady, but slick, and the condom packet tumbled out of his hands when he got distracted watching Sherlock. He had long fingers, slender and smooth like the rest of him, and they looked gorgeous disappearing into his arse. “John!” Sherlock snapped.

“Yes, I’m getting it, okay,” John said, and miraculously got the packet open and condom rolled on. Then Sherlock’s legs were snug around his waist and his hands were clutching John’s shoulders and he was pushing in, in, in. All the way in one long, exquisite slide. Sherlock arched his back and pressed his heels against John when he bottomed out, trying to get just that little bit more, and his eyes fluttered shut. 

“Ohhhhh,” Sherlock breathed, and smiled hazily up at him. “Oh that’s better. That’s just what I needed.”

John leaned forward and braced his hands on either side of Sherlock’s waist, and then rocked, biting his lip as Sherlock contracted around him. “You’re already close, aren’t you,” he said, and there was that alpha smugness stealing over him, that feeling of being ten feet tall and invincible. 

“Yes,” Sherlock said, then bit the side of his hand, mouthing and nibbling at his fingers. “Yes, close, I was waiting so long… oh god, like that, again.”

John grinned and thrust again, hard enough to rock them on the bed, to smack the headboard against the wall with a thump, and Sherlock threw his head back and shouted wordlessly. He came in long spurts all over his chest and belly, fluttering deliciously around John.

“Gorgeous,” John said, and leaned forward to lick at Sherlock’s chest, catching the tang of come over the decadent layer of pheromones. “Look at you, fuck, just look at you.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock purred, stretching lazily. “Keep going.”

“Oh, I’m not stopping,” John assured him. "Turn over. I want you from behind."

Sherlock nodded and rolled, making a soft sound when John slid out of him. Then he got up on his hands and knees and pressed back toward John. His skin was shining with lubricant, milky pale along his back and arse, a duskier pink toward the center, his balls drawn up snug against his body. John grabbed his hips greedily and slid in fast, and Sherlock shuddered. 

John didn't try to go slow. He felt wrapped up in Sherlock, drowned in his scent, drunk on him. He wanted to push until Sherlock couldn't feel anything else. Until he couldn't tell where the line was between them anymore, until he had changed the shape of Sherlock to fit him and it would never be the same. Until anyone who looked at Sherlock could see the part of him that was John. 

"Like that," Sherlock said, rocking with each thrust. "Just like that, oh god, you're so... so far, so full, John..."

"You didn't let that other doctor touch you," John said, his voice going rough and broken. "You didn't let anyone else. Not anyone else, Sherlock."

"Not anyone," Sherlock agreed. "Just you."

John leaned over his back, nuzzled the line between his shoulder blades, mouthed over the nape of his neck. He felt the pressure build, hot in the base of his spine, pooling there, liquid pleasure, and his skin tightened into shivery sensitivity all over. He pushed in as deep as he could and there was that snap, that rush of fullness and Sherlock keened as the knot expanded. John came until he couldn't breathe, until his chest ached and his head spun and his heartbeat was a thundering rush in his ears. 

They fell onto their sides, Sherlock gasping at the pull and wriggling to seat himself more closely to John. He pulled John's arms around him, brought one hand up to his mouth, kissed the inside of John's wrist. He pressed his mouth to the pulse point there, feeling it, then sucked at each of John's fingers.

" _Sherlock._ " John tightened his arms, gathering him closer. "You, oh, you're going to drive me mad."

He could feel Sherlock's smile against his palm. "Good. Two of us, then."

"I'm not letting you go again," John said, not sure if it was a warning or a promise. "I can't do that again, another three months of waiting. If you're here with me, you need to be _here._ "

"We can figure that out later," Sherlock mumbled. He shifted back and forth, rocking himself on John, and whimpered. 

"I mean it," John said. He slid his hand down Sherlock's belly and curled it around his cock, rubbing his thumb over the head. Sherlock twitched in his hand and he panted for breath.

"You, ah," Sherlock started. "I can't... oh, I can't think when you do that. Don't stop."

"Will you stay?" John asked, and nibbled the side of Sherlock's neck. "Or are you going to disappear again?"

"I don't... I want to, you won't want me to, I'm impossible to live with, oh god go faster." 

John went faster, rolling his hips, rubbing Sherlock inside and out, and Sherlock nearly sobbed as he came again. He was a live wire in John's arms, taut and quivering, and then he gave a long, contented sigh and went boneless. Holding him was like holding a sleeping cat, heavy and soft and impossible to move.

"Mine," John whispered, and Sherlock nodded weakly. 

"If you want," he said. "Yes. But you'll change your mind."

"Not happening," John replied. He couldn't stop rubbing his mouth against Sherlock's back, licking the clean salt taste of his sweat, catching with his teeth every so often. He wanted more, everything in him demanded that he leave a mark, that he claim what belonged to him. 

"I play the violin at all hours," Sherlock said. "Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. I keep science experiments everywhere, and I'm not talking about nice, clean experiments with bits of paper and computer data. I'm talking about chemicals and body parts and unidentifiable substances."

"I have nightmares," John countered. "Screaming ones. I'm no good as a doctor because I got used to working on a battlefield and regular medicine is too boring. Put me in an emergency and I'm brilliant, put me in an office treating the flu and broken arms and I'm useless. I don't have money, and chances are I'll never have a real career."

"Nobody can stand me for long." Sherlock's voice had gone soft. "Mycroft comes the closest and, well. You've met him."

"I want you." John closed his eyes, rubbed his cheek against Sherlock's hair. "If you'll stay."

"I'll stay as long as you let me."

John shuddered and rocked against him, the snug, sleek heat of Sherlock all around him, stroking him with each tiny movement. "Can I?" he asked. "Can I have you?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered before he even finished asking. "Yes, do it, do it, _John._ "

"Sherlock, oh," he said and bit down, sinking his teeth into the back of Sherlock's neck. Skin and gorgeous thick omega scent and then the copper tang of blood and his breath caught in his chest and he came in a rush. Everything faded, the room and the bed and colours, everything was washed out, overexposed bright white, dazzling his eyes. There was Sherlock crying out, shouting and coming and shaking apart, and John could hear his own voice, hoarse and trembling, words tumbling out but he wasn't sure what they were. Then those faded too, everything did, swinging up and away and he was sinking, falling, flying. 

*

John didn't open his eyes for a long time. He became aware of Sherlock first, breathing quietly in his arms, body completely relaxed. He still smelled richly of heat, but there was something subtly different about it now, something that made John feel smug and territorial. He nosed at the skin beneath his head, licked, and hummed in pleasure. 

At some point the knot had released, and John had slipped out, the condom drooping off him as he softened. He ignored it, as well as the sticky line of come on his thigh. Didn't matter. The bite mark on Sherlock's neck was far more interesting. Red and bruised, but no longer bleeding. The doctor in John wanted to clean and disinfect it. The alpha in him wanted to do it again. Too exhausted and comfortable to do either, he just pressed a gentle kiss to the either side.

Sherlock stirred and murmured, one hand going to pull John's arm more snugly across his chest. "You're thinking," he said. "Stop that."

"Lot to think about," John said. Some rational, sensible part of his mind, buried deep and muffled by all the hormones, was asking what the hell he'd just gotten himself into. John was very good at ignoring his rational and sensible bits.

"I'm still staying." Sherlock said it as if he expected an argument.

"Good," John replied. "I still want you to."

Sherlock nodded and brought John's hand to his face. He rubbed his cheek against the knuckles, then spread the hand out and kissed his palm, slow. "Figure out the rest later," he said. "It's all just details."

"Guess you're right."

Sherlock smiled. "I often am. Best you learn that early."

John gave a soft huff of laughter. "You hungry? We've got a little time before the next cycle hits, better get some nourishment while we can."

"Starving," Sherlock said. "Chinese? I know a great place near here that delivers. Well... they'll deliver for me."

"Sure," John said, but didn't let him go. Not quite yet.

*


End file.
